


Homecoming

by theTabularium



Category: Marvel, Marvel (Comics), Marvel 616
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Fluff, Gen, Injury Recovery, M/M, Nobody trusts anybody, Past Abuse, Queerplatonic Relationships, Retcon Timeline, ace friendly, flash and pat bond over being Done With This Nonsense, shield sticks its nose where it doesn't belong, symbionts and snark and snarky symbionts
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-07-04
Updated: 2018-03-12
Packaged: 2018-11-23 06:04:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 18,403
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11396814
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theTabularium/pseuds/theTabularium
Summary: When Blackheart left him beaten in a gutter, Pat Mulligan didn't die; he clung stubbornly to life. With a newfound friend and nothing more then the sense of someone missing, he starts trying to piece together the shattered remnants of who he used to be.





	1. Falling

**Author's Note:**

> Divergence starts around about Venom V21, just post Crime Master's demise, and tracks roughly parallel to the story up until Venom V23, before diverging completely. I retcon Toxin and Patrick's timeline to my heart's content.

**_Christmas Eve, 24 th December, 2009_ **

The city stretched out before them, momentarily peaceful and glittering like the Christmas tree inside, wedged into a corner of the living room. A dusting of snow topped everything off fit for a postcard.

"Well," Pat broke the sentence with a sigh and leant against the railing heavily. The cold metal of the fire escape bit his arms through the wool jumper but he didn't mind. "We made it another year."  
 _-We did.-_ A cool voice agreed, more preoccupied with the scent of strong spiced rum from the glass of eggnog Pat held than taking in the view.

A lone police siren broke the night with a mournful wail, two others taking up its call.

Pat felt the symbiote's attention fixate – if they'd have had ears, they would have pricked them – and took a deep, measured breath to counter the anticipatory kick of adrenaline twisting his stomach. A now-familiar sensation like icewater poured down his spine began to strengthen.

  
"Hey, we're off duty, remember?" He reminded his partner. "Christmas is downtime. It worked fine last year, and besides, you know the drill."

The slick presence noted the direction of the clustered noise and settled with an almost audible - _Hmph_ \- but said nothing more.

Three days and two nights of downtime was a hard ask, they both knew it, but they had made it through last year with only minor griping. Granted, Pat had to put up with a fortnight of curry and responding to every siren within earshot, but it had been worth it.

Pat downed the glass of eggnog in a single draught, and both of them relished the spices and heat of the rum. Toxin's strong palette was beginning to rub off on Mulligan more than he cared to admit.

"Come on, I'll make us a cup of coffee." He said, turning to go back inside to where Gina and Edward waited in the warmth. Christmas was a special occasion for Patrick in more ways then one, chiefly a chance to spend some time getting to know his son.

 _-Fine. Only if we check that out in the morning.-  
_ "Promise. If I don't, you can choose dinner for the next week. Actually, regardless, dinner's yours next week."  
 _-That's a lot of food…-_ Toxin seemed sold and, quietly, stunned.  
Pat grinned. "Consider it a gift."

Pat paused a moment, hand resting on the window frame and his focus fixed inwards. "Hey, Merry Christmas, Tox."

\----

 

**_Monday, 14 th of December, 2010_ **

 

An iced breeze funneled through the narrow buildings and straight down the backs of all on the street. It hadn't snowed yet but there was a heavy threat in the skies. Pat drew the collar of his jacket closer, tightening his scarf and breaking into a jog.

 _-Come on, we're already late.-_ Toxin badgered him.

"I know, I know, I'm sorry. I wanted to make sure I got Ed's gift, it's going to be hectic between here and Christmas." He explained under his breath. It was barely any warmer in the foyer of his apartment block, but he kept his pace up the stairwell to keep the warm burn in his muscles from fading.

Toxin's cold presence in his mind shifted unhappily at the mention of the holiday and Pat couldn't help but grin.

"We did two Christmases without shedding too much blood, Tox. We can get through a third."

 _-With a week's dinner?-_ Toxin purred, needling Pat with a cold chill.

"Aw, come on. If I told you what I got you it'd ruin the surprise!" He chided his invisible partner. It had taken him every day of the five years he'd been with Toxin to become comfortable enough to taunt them, and likewise Toxin had taken a while to learn the difference between snark and well-meaning jibes.

 _-Alright.-_ The symbiont let the issue go, fading to silence with a lingering sensation of typical impatience.

 

Pat chuckled as he hurried into his apartment. He put his son's gift – a teddybear dressed up as Captain America – on his bed to remind him to wrap it when he got back from Playtime. "Do I have time for food or are you just about chewing your foot off to get out there?"  
He could feel Toxin's impatience, an undercurrent of restlessness and almost didn't ask. It had been a ceaseless day on the job, he hadn't had anything but caffeine all day and if he didn't top up now he would be too comatose after Playtime to make it any further from where Toxin dropped him. Toxin felt the keen edge of hunger and the slowly fading buzz of caffeine in their host just as well as he did, and gave a begrudging nudge towards the kitchen. _–There's always time for coffee.-_

Pat brewed himself a hurried cup of coffee and drank it as fast as he dared. It was strong, as had become habit, a punch to his flagging system.

"So, what's the plan for tonight?" He asked between scalding mouthfuls.

 _-The usual. I was thinking I might pay Morgan a visit, make sure he's been a good boy. Then see whatever else catches my nose.-_ Toxin replied. The Detective in question was so bent Pat had remarked he was surprised the man could still walk a straight line. The Rules they'd agreed on for Platytime still forbade homicide but Pat had agreed Toxin could toe the line with intimidation – particularly an officer feathering his nest with bloody money from illegal arms deals.

"Sounds fun. Don't stay out late, we've got an early start tomorrow." Pat drained the mug, gave it a quick rinse and left it upside-down in the sink to drain.

 _-I make no promises.-_ The symbiont growled with a jagged edge, but they both knew there was no threat merely impatience.

Pat lingered a moment at the sink, feeling the anticipation of his partner grow with each passing second. "Alright buddy, go on. Stay safe."

 

The man took a deep breath, relinquishing his hold on his body to Toxin's control. It had taken him a long time to trust Toxin enough not to fight it each time and he still had his days where it was hard, but it was becoming more and more like simply falling asleep. The man's figure rippled, tendrils flowing like liquid into the predatorial form Toxin favored. Razor claws formed on the ends of raptorial fingers, torso split red from black by a fringe of ceaseless, shifting tendrils.  
Toxin made for the kitchen window but at the last moment relented. A tendril snapped out from their broad shoulder to grab an apple off the bench. They weren't so rushed as to let Pat starve. They might gripe, whine and complain, but they tried to look after him.

The apple disappeared into Toxin's ragged maw with a crunch and then they were gone, out the window in a single lithe movement.

\----

_"Pat. Pat, wake up. Something's not right."_

_Toxin?_ This wasn't like the symbiont. Usually they were glad to have some time to themselves and didn't bother their tired host. He dragged himself closer to the surface of the cool smog of unconsciousness that descended whenever Toxin took the wheel. _What's up, buddy?  
"I don't know. It just… feels bad."_

It was like waking up with sleep paralysis – or a particularly bad hangover. Pat couldn't quite move of his own accord, his limbs felt heavy and alien. Indeed they were, being at that moment physically more symbiont then human, all lean muscle and raw power. Sensation flooded back to him and he was instantly on edge. Toxin was coiled tighter than a spring, strung taut as a bowstring and nervous, not in a good way.

The pair were perched on the side of a building, wicked talons sunk into the loose brickwork, staring intently at the seemingly empty alley below.

 _What is it?_ He asked internally, as his mouth was not his. Like everything else it was an odd sensation - like talking to himself, only louder – that he had become familiar with.  
 _"What is that smell?"_ Toxin murmured. They inhaled deeply and the dim alley came alive in their shared minds. Toxin was always all about the scents, and this one had them stumped.

The cool night air was tainted with something above the usual smog, something deep like woodsmoke with an edge to it that almost made them gag. If a fire could smell rotten, that would be it.

 _I don't know. Car fire maybe?_ Pat suggested.  
Toxin shifted, uncertain. _"No. We know what that smells like."  
Where's it coming from?  
"That's the thing,"_ Toxin growled angrily, _"I can't-AAAGH!_ "

 

Pain. Nothing but mind numbing, earsplitting pain.

The next thing either of them knew they were falling.  
The ground rushed up to them and it was all Toxin could do to gather themselves and cushion the fall – just.

The impact knocked Toxin out of control, not that it mattered much. The pair struggled to recover, writhing as the blast rung out. Noise washed over them and shook every fiber of their beings as if tearing them apart. If they were screaming, neither could tell.

It stopped as suddenly as it had started.

Reeling in the gutter, Pat gave a hacking cough, spitting blood through ragged teeth. "What- _ack!-_ What the hell?"  
"Hmm, close. But no cigar." A voice crooned from the night.

Talons reached from the shadows, a monstrous figure blocking the dim light.

Pat struggled to move, to scream, to do anything, but fear the likes of which he'd never experienced froze the blood right in his veins.  
"I'll take this." The monster purred, reaching for Toxin – or what remained of them, leaking over Pat like angry snakes. The blackened claws closed on them and pain lanced through the pair again.

" _No-Pat! Paaassssssskkkreeeeeeee!"_ Toxin's cries drew out into a wail as they were stripped forcibly from him, loosing use of a larynx.

Pat screamed soundlessly, using the last of his shattered strength and fighting to hold Toxin to him, willing them to stay. It was as if the very air was being pulled from his very veins.

It was no use. The symbiont was ripped from the man's prone form in writhing, visceral coils.

Pat reached for the last screaming, twisting shred of Toxin he could, fighting delirium to grip whatever he reached. Toxin was likewise straining against their attacker wrapping whatever meager tendrils they could around the man’s arm.   
The monster laughed cruelly. A foot slammed down on him, bones crushed and talons digging into him like glass. Then it heaved, pulling savagely away, drawing last connection taught like a bowstring.

 _SNAP!_ It broke.

Agony peaked, darkness surging over Pat's vision and threatening loss of consciousness. He tried feebly to reach for the looming figure again, but it batted his bloodied hand away.  
"Oh there is nothing as sweet as this," It hummed to him in a voice like distant screams. "The breaking of a bond."

Then the alley was empty.

"Toxin…" Pat lay, alone like he hadn't been for years. All strength drained out of him into tears.  
He gave up.


	2. Picking up the Pieces

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Recovery is tough enough when you don't have half your memories in shattered fragments, or been reduced to almost nothing by your mistakes.

**_September, 2012_ **

 

"This is it? What do you mean this is it?"

"I'm sorry, sir, that's as close as we can get." The orderly explained with nervous patience.

Pat gave an exasperated sigh. He could feel his endurance waning, the pain that had been constant every day of the two years since his accident was beginning to spike again. He was almost loosing the energy to fight for himself, but his stubborn streak wasn't letting up. "I know, all you've got but you can fit _two_ of me in this, it's-"

"Bullshit, right?" A third voice interjected.

Mulligan and the orderly turned to see a man had stopped his chair by the door, having caught wind of the increasingly frustrated exchange.  
"The world's in a sorry state, isn't it? Man can't even get a comfortable seat." The stranger stated mirthlessly, wheeling over to them.

 

Pat gave the man a once-over – his brush with death hadn't managed to beat out the habits years of policing had ingrained in him– noting the beaten duffel on his lap, plain shirt, black gym shorts bearing scarred knees and nothing else, and the enviable ease with which he maneuvered his striking black chair. The paint had a finish like an oil slick, wheels were canted outwards slightly and, unlike his, seemed to seat him snugly. The chair was to his what an Aventador was to the burnt out wreck of a Daewoo.

"Yours is alright- what is that, anodized steel?"

"Something like that." The stranger said with a crooked grin, offering a hand. "Flash Thompson."

"Patrick Mulligan, call me Pat." Pat gave the offered hand a shake.

"Alright, Pat, I will." Flash agreed.

The orderly hovering over Pat's shoulder cleared his throat, taking hold of the handles of his chair and steering him out of into the hall. "Ok, so now we've settled you in that, let's go back to your room."

Pat gave a dismissive wave of his hands, more than used to being shepherded about by medical staff. "Yeah, yeah, let's go."

"Want some company on the return trip?" Flash offered him, following the pair out.  
"Only if you're sure, Mr Mulligan?" The orderly jumped in before Pat could so much as process the question.  
He just gave a tired nod, looking fed up with the entire thing.  
"Okay, but if you're not back within the next hour I'm coming to look for you." The orderly said sternly as if to a child.  
"I've got my panic button." Pat waved the button looped around his wrist like a white flag of surrender.  
Flash fixed the orderly with a remarkably sharp look. "It's alright, I think Mr Mulligan knows the way back to his room."  
Seemingly satisfied, if not a bit taken aback, the orderly bustled off.

 

"God!" Pat's shoulders dropped as soon as the orderly was out of view.  
"Yeah, they can be pretty insufferable can't they?" Flash said.  
"Insufferable? I can't move my bowels let alone myself without someone signing something, and they can't do that without consulting with three other people." Mulligan replied, exhaustion turning to frustrated anger, waving a hand for emphasis. He used the tiny kick the rage gave him to begin wheeling himself back down the hall.

Flash followed patiently beside him, laughing quietly.

After a while Pat glanced over to him. "So, what are you in for? You look like you're pretty with it?"  
"I'm not in – they bring me in every few months to put me through my paces." Flash patted the duffel on his lap by way of explanation.  
Pat winced, still feeling the ache of his own therapy session from days ago – some days he doubted they actually made anything better. "Cruel, aren't they? I've never been so exhausted in my life."  
Flash gave a barked laugh. "Absolutely. Some of the orderlies make my old drill instructors look soft. I missed my last one so they pushed me double-time today."

"Sadists." Pat grunted.

The pair continued on for a while longer in affable silence. Pat was mostly concentrating on wrangling the new chair, which seemed to have the steering capabilities of a shopping cart run over by a truck. _Then again,_ he thought, _I'm driving under the influence of some pretty heavy drugs._

The wheels barked against the sideboard yet again as Pat tried to negotiate around a machine standing in the hallway, jarring him to a halt.

"Oh, fuck!" He hissed through clenched teeth; the impact sent pain shooting through him like electrocution.  
"People will leave all sorts of shit in the way," Flash swooped in unbidden, sending the machine to the other side of the hall with a solid shove. "Eventually you just learn to get really good at pushing. You all right?"  
"Yeah, just give me a moment." Pat said, breathing shakily as the spike ebbed back down to a more manageable level of torturous.

Eventually they started down the hall again.

Whether it was the purpose with which he moved or the faintly menacing sheen of the finish on his chair, people parted around Flash like an icebreaker, something for which Pat was glad as he muddled stubbornly along in the buffer he provided.  
Pat was relieved to see the door to his room not too far up ahead.

"Some days I wish my nerves _had_ given up on me, you know? At least then I wouldn't have to deal with the pain."  
"I know how you feel." Flash said with an empathetic grimace. Anyone who tried to tell him scar tissue didn't hurt wasn't worth the air they breathed.  
Pat winced again, but not from any physical pain. "Hell man, sorry, that was insensitive of me."  
"No, not at all. It's ok, if you need to vent, go ahead. I'm a good listener- well, I lie, I'm a shit listener." He confessed.  
"At least you're an honestly shit liar." Pat risked the jibe and was relieved to see the other man grin.  
"How'd the other guy come out, by the way?" Flash asked casually.  
"Don't know, can't remember jack shit to be honest." Pat replied. There was a nice big gap right where he wished there wasn't, and not just for the sake of catching his apparent attacker.  
It was Flash's turn to feel awkward. "Damn, sorry."  
"No skin off my back. Just, you know, partial paralysis and chronic pain!" Pat laughed with a tint of bitterness Flash knew too well, usually from his own mouth.

 

"Well, this is my stop. Thanks for the company, nice to meet someone not in scrubs." He leant over the irritatingly high sides of his chair and offered Flash a hand in thanks.  
Flash gave it a firm shake. "No problem. If you're still here the next time they drag me in for punishment, I'll swing by."  
"That'd be great, Flash." Pat said.  
"See you, Pat." Flash gave him a lazy salute as he moved past him into the room.

As soon as he was alone, Pat released a long sigh and shoved himself towards the window. All strength disappeared from him and he let the chair coast unsteadily until it butted the wall below the glass. That would have to do him for now.

Pat rested his head against the cool pane, trying to fend of the ever-advancing headaches.

The view from the window, like the room and the entire hospital, was mid-rate at best. It looked onto the courtyard between wings, not out over the river, but at least there were trees to break up the typical monotony of the buildings. They were ablaze with Autumnal colours, dusting the grounds underneath them with a small carpet of leaves. People scurried across the courtyard, a mix of patients and medical staff alike. There were one or two patients accompanied by friends or family enjoying the mild Autumn weather.  
Mild apparently wasn't a setting on the hospital's heating system. Though it was barely below 60 outside, the heating had been ramped up and sucked all humidity out of the air.

Pat swallowed and looked around – but there was no water jug to be found in the room. He glanced over the bed to the door to the bathroom shared by his room and the next, but the distance yawned between him, unconquerable for the moment.

Like a bittersweet answer to his silent prayer, the orderly appeared with a tray of the afternoon's medications and a blessed water jug.  
"Oh good, I don't have to hunt you down Mr Mulligan!" He exclaimed with a forced smile.  
"You wouldn't have to hunt far." He replied, somewhat gruffly. "If I was still working I'd book myself for DUI, what with all these damned meds."  
The orderly laughed nervously, drawing a blank on a reply and handing Pat the pill cup of his medications.  
Pat took them, downing them with a chaser of water. He'd learned not to fight because neither he nor the orderlies had the time or energy to spare.  
The orderly put the jug and cup by his bedside and flipped open a clipboard. "Alright, Mr Mulligan, I just have some quick questions for you and I'll leave you alone for the evening."  
"Shoot." Pat said dryly, wishing the man had put the jug somewhere closer.

"How are you feeling today?" The man began.  
Pat struggled not to laugh – every day it was the same mediocre round of 20 questions. "Sore."  
"Okay, on a scale of one to ten how bad is your pain?"  
"Physically or mentally?" Pat replied. The orderly raised a brow slightly and Pat relented. "About a five."  
"Has getting the chair helped with your pain levels?"  
"I've only been in it, what, an hour? Can't really tell yet."  
"Have you had any episodes today?"  
Pat gave a short sigh and rubbed his face. "No, not really."  
"Not really?"  
"Had a bit of a rough night, but nothing persisted into today." He grumbled  
"More nightmares?" The orderly pressed.

Pat looked away out the window and was silent.

"Come on, Mr Mulligan, we have to keep a track of all these things."  
"I can't tell. It was either a nightmare or… a really bad memory." Pat huffed moodily. The pain medication couldn't kick in fast enough to dampen the migraine.  
"But you haven't had any moments today?"  
"No. Not awake, at least." He grumbled.  
"I'll mark that as a no." The orderly scribbled dutifully. "Alright, that's it for now. If you need anything-"  
"I've got the buzzer. Thank you." Pat said, eager to be rid of him.

The orderly hurried out again and Pat resumed watching the courtyard with a detached interest.

He had only been partially truthful with the orderly. He hadn’t sleep at all the last night, but spent hours stuck in the limbo between rest and waking. It was partly due to the pain but more so the cruel theatre of his mind. He’d dreamt – or hallucinated – of falling from a great height into a pool filled with broken glass. There was someone or something on the edge he was struggling to reach but every bone in his body seemed broken, every inch of him sliced to ribbons.

Pat had been stuck on the nightmare the rest of the night, and most of the day. This wasn’t from the usual stock, he _felt_ it in every one of his injuries. It was something terribly close to a memory but Pat knew it couldn’t be – he couldn’t remember anything in three month block that covered his accident.

Retrograde amnesia, the doctors had told him, with a healthy dose of anti-retrograde amnesia to balance it out. There was dead space all around when he was told he was attacked, but there were gaps before it too. Pat had almost fallen of the bed in shock when he saw Edward again – he knew his son had grown, but that he was walking? Talking? He couldn’t place his finger on when that had happened, distressing him no end.

He’d managed to get a hold of the reports from the first responders that said they’d found him unresponsive in an alley. His injuries were confusing – concussion and fractures consistent with him hitting something or something hitting him _hard_ , and lacerations that were more akin to mauling. His spine looked like someone had dropped an anvil square on his back, or beaten him with one. He had no defensive wounds - odd for someone who looked for all the world like he’d been hit by a truck full of knife wielding thugs. What’s more, anyone who knew Pat knew he wouldn’t go down without a fight, either. Just like his father- but there was a twisted knot of amnesia around his father’s death just as there was riddled throughout the rest of his brain, leaving only scattered remnants. There was nothing in these remnants that had suggested a fall any more then if he’d simply tripped over his own feet.

Closing his eyes, Pat sighed angrily. Why, then, was his mind so fixated on throwing him off things repeatedly? And why did he feel so grossly _alone?_

Those three months of empty space had robbed him of something much more then his mobility, his memory, or an attacker at which to direct his hatred. He felt like someone else had been ripped out of his life, out of his memories all together. Someone he’d maybe only known for a few years prior to the incident – someone who might explain why he and Gina had divorced. Pat grimaced at the thought. Gina wouldn’t talk about it, and Pat didn’t have the energy to press her. He was still coming to terms with the death of his father apparently at the hands of some serial killer, on top of it all.

The sun settled lower in the sky, slanting at a neat angle into his room.

He felt the medication start to take the edge off the pain and turned the chair towards the bed. It was a test of his coordination and remnants of strength to get out of the chair and into the bed. It took him two tries before he recalled wheelchairs had brakes. After his third attempt he had to take a break, and almost felt asleep before, with a last shred of stubborn anger and frustration, he was up and out.  
Finally on the bed, he let himself collapse onto the starched hospital sheets. He’d started the day on an empty tank, and after the continual aggravations, he knew he wouldn’t make it to the meager meal that passed for dinner. At the very least, he might get some sleep now the medication was setting in. If not sleep, at least he might pass out from sheer exhaustion.

Either way he hoped there wouldn’t be a recurrence of the night before.

He’d had enough of falling.

\----

Snatches of conversation stirred life where there should have been none.

“Geez, where did this poor guy come from?” A voice exclaimed in dulled shock that said this was not the worst state someone had arrived in.  
“That dock fire, and there’s more to come yet in worse state.” Replied another tired voice.  
“Why us?” A third chimed in over the scratch of pen on paper.  
“Don’t give me that shit, Russo, we’ve ben backlogged ever since last year’s freak out so we’ve been stashing Does wherever we can find the space, and tonight, that’s you.” The second voice retorted.  
Whomever Russo was seemed in no mood argue the point further. “Alright, we’ll keep this bay open then. Just page the door and you can start bringing them all through.” 

There was a jolt, followed by the smart _thunk_ of doors closing. Not long after, another shudder and muffled swearing.

“Fuck me, I don’t know if he’s going to fit in the locker.” Growled Russo’s voice.  
“There’s not that much left of him, he’ll fit.” The first voice chided.  
“Yeah, yeah…” Whatever smartarse reply Russo might have had was cut off by a dull thud and a sudden chilled silence.

The cold seeped through the body bag, bringing with it clean air devoid of choking smoke. New scents dragged scattered remains closer together, close enough to return to vague consciousness. Reduced to scorched remnants they might have been, but they had always been about the scents.

Above the stench of burnt flesh and stink of medical disinfectant they caught the faintest shred of something familiar. - _HOME!-_

Toxin gathered as much of themself as they could, whatever remnants that hadn’t been destroyed by the fire. Every part that they regained they felt more pain, more exhaustion. It seemed to take an age before they had aggregated enough to leak from the corpse and struggle, paper-thin, through the zipper of the bodybag.

The refrigerated locker was a haven for the injured symbiont. They wedged themself into the corner closest to the cooling elements and waited again, regaining strength after the trial of re-aggregation. Every now and then there came the whisper of the familiar scent like a lifeline. A mess of thin tendrils, Toxin felt along the rubber seal on the inside of the locker door until they found a weakness where it was aged and cracked. The scent seeped stronger through the crack as Toxin surged through it, hardening themself to a razor barb and dropping to the floor outside.

Now, they followed the scent like a hound on a trail, a streak of creeping shadow along the halls, shying from the noise and heat of passer’s by. Hot, dry air sapped their already limited energy, too close to the heat of the blaze they’d just endured. The thunder of a gurney provided a welcome shelter for them, darting onto the cool metal of the undercarriage. By some stroke of luck, it moved in the direction the scent was strongest.

Taking the chance to rest, Toxin allowed themself a seed of hope. They were so _tired_ , they were almost disbelieving. Maybe they were too badly injured, the scent wasn’t what they hoped it was, but maybe, just _maybe_ , it could be…

The gurney jolted to a stop. There was a ding and a faint rumble, and then a flood of new scents that threatened to drown out the one Toxin sought. They surged frantically from the gurney, away from the elevator and made a desperate break along the hallway. Their panic gave them a last, critical burst of strength and they decided that if they had to finally die then at least it would be trying to get back to the one place they’d ever felt they belonged.

The trail led them to a room where they could sense only one person.

Toxin skittered from the hallway to under the bed like a deranged spider. The man above was still, so still that for a moment they feared he was dead.  
Then the man fidgeted in his sleep, shallow and fitful, a hand dropping over the edge of the bed. Toxin tentatively reached feelers out towards it, wishing they had the strength to see better, that they might read the armband and stop themselves before they had to accept that Pat _was_ dead, that the scent was just pure coincidence, that they’d have to start over, if they survived at all.  
The symbiont shuddered, weak, tendrils shooting reflexively to the hand for support. It was like biting a live wire.Torrents of overwhelming information flooded instantly through the contact, but brought with it the salvation of familiarity.

That was all they needed. Toxin surged upwards, splitting into spidery threads, braiding into capillaries and, finally, letting themself loose all form with a tacit cry.

\----

_“PATRICK!”_

Mulligan surged up awake and immediately regretted the action.  
Pain lanced through his nerves like fire, dropping him back to the mattress with a bitter hiss. His head rang with echoes of the voice. He half expected to see whoever had screamed his name in his ear, but he was, as always, alone. Absently rubbing his arm, which twinged with what he now knew as the sensation of damaged nerves, he tried to will himself back to sleep.

Whatever he’d been dreaming had left him with a cruel taunting of reunion, though with whom he could never be sure. Familiar bitterness arced, tightening his throat, before fading to despondency.

 _Just another nightmare._ He consoled himself. _You’re still alone._


	3. Perdition

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Patrick and Toxin are once again reunited but unaware, the latter too weak to form anything but ghosts - but how is Mulligan to know that these terrors aren't his and his alone?
> 
> [[Content warnings for detailed descriptions of burning and bodily harm, but not self-inflicted injuries.]]

**_Late October, 2012_ **

Flames licked up the walls and spread hungrily across the ceiling. Scorching air seared his lungs as he breathed it in, the heat sunk into his entire body as the fire drew closer around him.

He didn’t fight it.

Pat sat in a narrow hallway somewhere he almost remembered but couldn’t quite name, completely immersed in flames. The roar of fire was deafening, drowning out his own screams, but still he made no attempt to escape the inferno. He felt the burn of the fire driving him to pieces like wax melting.

He _deserved_ it. He’d done so many things; terrible, fantastic things. This was the only way to make it right, the flames slowly devouring the evidence; lifeless forms and visceral spatters charred into non-existence.

So he burned.

\----

Pat rolled over, waking to a grey morning. Familiar quiet reigned in the room with the undercurrent of the rest of the ward going about early morning business. The skies outside were dull and threatened rain, but none had yet fallen. A brisk wind drove stray dead leaves about the courtyard and rattled the windows softly.

The man let loose a shuddering sigh and waited for the nightmare to loose its grip on him.

It wasn’t the first of its kind, and whilst it made a nice change from the old stock of nightmares, they always left a bad taste in his mouth – the bitter tang of guilt. Pat ran a hand through his hair – long, starting to tangle, in dire need of a cut – and pushed himself up.

He looked across to the small digital clock on his bedside, reading ‘06:45’, and let himself fall back onto his pillows. The first round of medications and checks wouldn’t be until seven, if things were on time. He had fifteen minutes to try and get some sort of rest.

 

When the orderly knocked on the door at seven, the man was asleep. She left the pill cup with a fresh jug of water on the bedside and resolved to return in twenty minutes; the night shift had noted Mulligan had been having trouble sleeping lately so a sleep-in wouldn’t do him any harm.

\----

 

Flash meandered down the corridor, avoiding machinery and other traffic whilst trying to recall where Mulligan’s room was.

It had been more then a month since he’d met Patrick, and he’d been busy- though busy didn’t quite cover it. The man had to make a concerted effort to make his physiotherapy appointment that day, and figured that if he was going to take a day off from hunting down some pumpkin-headed freak, he was going to make the most of it.  
Mulligan turned stiffly in his seat at the rap on his door, taking a moment to recognize Flash, his face rough and looking all in all rather harrowed.

“Hey Pat,” Flash began, “Thought I’d keep my word and see how you were?”

“Flash! Nice of you to swing by.” He waved the man in, pushing away from the window to meet him by the foot of his bed. Pat extended a hand in greeting as the other man neared, wincing slightly at Flash’s iron grip.

“Sorry,” Flash didn’t miss the stifled grimace.

“Don’t worry about it, it’s these damned blisters.” Pat flipped over his hand to bear his palms, faintly red and tender.

Flash gave a knowing chuckle. “Ah, still got soft hands. Haven’t built up the required calluses yet.”

“They better hurry up, or I’m gonna spend the rest of my life in gloves.” Pat grumbled.

“Gloves are alright,” Flash said, thinking of the worn pair in the duffel slung across the back of his chair, “How about the rest of you?”

Pat cast a look outside, voice rough with faint chagrin. “Ups and downs – more trouble then it’s worth some days. Less getting better, more getting used to it.”

“Sounds familiar.” Flash followed Pat’s gaze outside, an idea forming; he was too used to the façade of coping to fail to notice it in others. “Also sounds like you could do with some fresh air?”

“Please!” Tired as he was, a break in the monotony would be welcome. Maybe sitting outside would break the overwhelmingly foul mood he’d been in.

 

Despite only being three floors up, the trip downstairs took the better part of fifteen minutes. A month of adjusting and arduous physical therapy had improved Patrick’s driving skills, a fact Flash remarked upon casually as they waited for by the elevator. “Almost ready for your full license.”

“Almost,” Pat agreed, “But no amount of skill is going help when the chair is this out of shape. They should have registration requirements for these things!”

“Nah, that would cost us all _more_ money… wait, no, politicians would love that.” Flash feigned horror at the idea.

 

The pair fell silent as the elevator stopped at the second floor, letting in a few orderlies and a lone visitor in civvies. The orderlies were buried in their paperwork, barely stepping aside of the pair, but the visitor gave them both a wide berth and flattened against the side of the elevator wall. As the elevator emptied at the ground floor, the man could hardly get past the two chairs fast enough. Patrick mostly ignored the visitor’s obvious discomfort – it was grating, he hadn’t developed Flash’s dismissive attitude yet. If Flash noticed, he didn’t care to show it.

Once outside the pair made a beeline for one of the bench tables set up under the few trees in the courtyard. Flash swung the duffel off the back of his chair and onto the table beside him, rifling about for his waterbottle. Breathing in the dry hospital air during his training had left him parched.

 

“If I’d have known I was going to entertain I’d have put a face on.” Pat parroted one of Gina’s favorite lines, rubbing a hand over his rough face as if the cold autumnal air could rinse away some of his fatigue. Even shaving was an arduous task these days, he cut more of himself then he did his stubble.

Flash took a swig from his water bottle before replying. “I look just as mangy as you do, don’t sweat it.”

The pair shared twin laughs of exhaustion before settling into affable, if not tired, silence.

Pat’s migraine seemed to build now he was outside, despite the relatively clean air of the port. Even that wasn’t enough to curb the dogged pain that had been building all morning, starting as a faint discomfort and now felt like a metal clamp on his head. A pair of nurses on their lunch break crossed the courtyard, laughter bouncing off the concrete and making Pat’s mood twist in distaste. He’d grown so used to his solitary brooding that he’d forgotten that amount of joy. He tried to take some respite in just being away from his room but it was an uphill battle against his body.

Flash, for his part, seemed content just to watch people move about the courtyard around them, relishing the cool air on his aching muscles. He’d probably regret accepting the rescheduled appointment, but he’d put it off for too long and didn’t want to test the tenuous contract he had with Veterans Affair’s, not with his previous record of dropping out of any treatment regime. Even still, he’d probably sleep the next two days solid given the chance. Just sitting quietly doing nothing in amicable company was doing his frayed nerves a world of good. It was like taking a step back from the chaos of the last few months, giving himself a moment to put Betty and Staten Island shipyards out of his head. A cool presence stirred as Flash raked over the memories, still raw, making him rub the black ring on the middle finger of his right hand with his thumb to soothe the symbiont. It was doing _both_ of them good, even if Venom was loathed to admit it.

The ring was something they’d developed recently – the constant stress of late had made Flash restless – he’d dismantled almost every pen in his apartment, and then reassembled them again, spinning his keys was too noisy, and there was only so many times he could clean his gun. The restlessness had grown until it had begun to wear on Venom, who had finally had enough and manifested the fidget ring out of sheer frustration. Flash had been surprised – when had Venom ever come across anything like that? – but it _did_ help. It had gradually become a direct line of contact between the two outside of their shared headspace.

Pat regarded Flash beside him, reclined rather easily in his well-made chair, with an air of enviable content. Suddenly the sight of his friend was too much, seeing him so at ease and so untroubled, absently fiddling with his hands as if his mind sat idling in neutral, looking so much more composed and in control then Mulligan himself. The envy twisted into something sharper right in the pit of his stomach and he had to look away with a bitter sigh.

The noise brought Flash’s attention back to him and concerned darkened his face seeing the sudden tension in the other man. “You right, Pat?”

“I think I’m gonna go back inside.” Pat replied, not meeting his gaze.

“Need me to grab a nurse?” Flash’s keen gaze swept around the courtyard, angrily noting the absence of any staff.

“No, it’s just… one of those bad days.” Pat waved a hand dismissively, gritting his teeth against another painful twist of self-disgust as he shoved off and began back towards the doors.

Flash took a second to grab his duffel off the bench and swing it across the back of his chair before moving to follow.

Pat put his hand up, stopping him in his tracks. “I’ll be fine. I’ll… I’ll see you later, alright?”

“Okay,” Flash said, seeing his friend was in no mood to argue with.

“Thanks, Flash.” Pat managed a small, lockjawed smile before turning his attention back to returning to his room.

 

Flash gave a weak wave of farewell, hand falling dejectedly back to his lap as he watched Patrick disappear through the courtyard doors. The sudden turn in mood shocked him, had he missed something Pat had said earlier?

His worry disturbed Venom again, who tightened the band on his finger gently. _–What’s wrong?-_

_I’m sure it’s nothing we need to worry about,_ Flash reassured them as much as he did himself, something Venom didn’t miss.

_-We can check on him later.-_ They said, already readjusting plans for the next few days to include a covert stop back to check on him, Flash idly adding a the possibility of a daytime visit if everything seemed well.

Thus decided, Flash sighed and turned towards the exit. _Yeah. He’ll be alright until then._

\----

By the time Pat had made it back to his room, the anger in his stomach had spread to a tension in his entire body and a bitter cloud in his mind. He couldn’t blame Flash entirely – he’d been in such a foul mood he’d have remained in bed with the covers over his head if his physio team hadn’t forced him out of bed at nine. It had been another in a string of bad nights; uncomfortable not in terms of pain – a constant he was becoming more and more used to – but because of the dreams. Mulligan shuddered visibly as his mind strayed back to the past night’s terrors.

 

The man pulled his chair up alongside the bed and stood carefully – the anger fuelled his stubbornness enough that he was able to push through the cramps in his legs and protests in his back, and get onto his bed without much issue. He sat for a moment, running his hand over his rough face again, before reaching into the bedside table. He felt around until his fingers brushed the stiff cover of a small pocketbook.

Settling into the pillows, he flipped through the pages, absently noting the gradual progression of the writing within from shaky, oversized letters, to a more concise but still noticeably wavering script until he reached blank pages. Pat pulled the pen from the spine of the notebook, glanced at the clock on the table for a date, and began to write dutifully.

Mulligan couldn’t quite remember when he’d started journaling – it wasn’t a habit held over from his youth, and he’d always been chastised for pitiful note-keeping habits on the job – but he’d started as soon as he was able to hold a pen again. The monotony was calming, it gave him some way of making heads or tails of things. He didn’t journal in the way that a teenager might, addressing the record as some distant friend ‘ _Dear Diary, Today I woke up at 6am…’_ , but clinically, detaching himself from the words so they might go where they may. When asked, the psychologists were told it was it was the former type, a mind-numbing activity log. It was safer, he figured, that they not know.

 

Pat’s pen started slowly but soon moved briskly across the page with remarkable steadiness for the words he wrote.

Pat wrote of fire.

The literal fire, the oily smear of hot air, so hot it drove his mind to pieces. Then there was a different fire, a burning undercurrent of feverish rage that exploded into tremendous acts of violence.

 

These were not just outbursts of anger, but the thud of his fists hitting something hard enough he felt the impact from his knuckles right up into his shoulders, of recalling the exact resistance of flesh against a blade, of how much force a sternum could take before it caved, taking the rest of the chest with it. He was _remembering_ the likes of this and much, much more - the crunch of windpipes, the foul scent of a fatally deep stomach wound. The bone-chilling smugness of it all, of knowing just where to hit or how hard to see a person unmade.

Last night had been a tier above the new normal atrocity – he’d seen the victims for the first time, not the usual disembodied fragments in superfine detail. His writing became shaky again as he recounted.

He’d seen uniforms. Uniforms blossoming crimson, falling apart, split by ragged tears cutting through fabric, through flesh, right to viscera. Flashbulbs of gory still life lit in harsh red or blue. Copper-scented blood on bright brass.

 

Patrick’s hand shook too much, and the pen skipped off the line. He took a shuddering breath, coming back to himself with tears in his eyes and a painful sob caught in his throat. _God, what did I do?_

Biting his lip, he closed the pocketbook, tucked the pen back in the spine, and replaced it into the draw. The last of the anger had faded, leaving him exhausted. He collapsed forwards, catching his head in his hands and resting his elbows on thin knees.

The rush of barbarity faded with his anger, leaving a wake of bitter guilt and shame.

Maybe he deserved whatever he had gotten if those fragments really were memories. But why, then, was he not locked up? Mulligan couldn’t rectify the two lives he was piecing together – the routine violence he’d seen as an officer was a world away from these scenes of brutal, exhilarating _monstrosity_. Pat wasn’t recalling seeing the gore or hearing it relayed second-hand, his body was _remembering_ it like muscles remember the patterns of a once-routine task, steps to a familiar dance. How could he know how to do these things if he hadn’t, in fact, done them? There was nobody else he could blame.

 

For a moment he felt something in the depths of his mind, as if a memory was tangled in his guilt and being dragged to the surface. For a split second, he was _certain_ he knew who was behind the violence, behind his injuries, behind all of it – but it passed and the memory was lost again. Pat kneaded the blankets briefly with familiar frustration.

This wasn’t the first time he’d almost remembered something of the missing periods in his mind. The neurosurgeon had assured him that most amnesia resolved itself, told him not to push it. They had been half right, he remembered day to day monotony in as much detail as he would expect from memories half a decade old, remembered the address of the apartment he move to when he left Gina – but he couldn’t remember why. These fragments seemed to orbit sinkholes of something else, something he couldn’t think about, and not for lack of trying. He’d tried following the fragments like breadcrumbs, waiting for his brain to line up the pieces, but every time he hit a point and bringing to mind the next step was like trying to force two magnets together at the same pole. It was like an oilspill of in his mind, fragments slipping apart after careful hours spent pulling them together. He knew better, now, then to chase what he couldn't catch. 

The man sat back up, falling against the thin hospital pillows with a now-familiar crinkle of plastic covers. The afternoon outside was still bleak and grey, and he lost himself in watching the dirty grey clouds scroll steadily by.

The remainder of the day passed in dull routine, slipping away into the evening like countless others.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A slightly brief update, moving towards a bit of a gear change in the next chapter. There will be symbionts, and secrets!


	4. Progress

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Pat is finally nearing freedom from the ward that's been his home for the past few years, whether he and his still unconscious symbiote are ready or not; Flash finds out there's a troubling history between his friend and his own symbiote partner when SHIELD delivers a new tasking.

_**November 2012** _

“Daddy!”

The boy’s voice cut through the bustle of the hospital hallway like a hot knife through butter. Pat looked up from his phone and had but a moment to brace against a tiny comet of red, white, and blue streaking towards him.

“ _Oof_ \- hey, kiddo!” He managed to catch his son mid-leap and stop him sending the both of them backwards into the wall he’d stopped his chair by.

“Edward! I told you to wait!” Gina admonished the boy as she reached them. “Sorry, Pat.”

Patrick dismissed it with a laugh, giving Ed a gentle squeeze before dropping him off his lap. “You made good time.”

“Even found a park with only one lap of the block, didn’t we Ed?” The woman said, taking Edward’s hand again to keep him close as they began back towards Pat’s room.

“We parked by the river.” Their son said, seemingly proud of the fact.

“We did. We had to stop to see if there were any ducks.” She continued.

“Oh, and were there any ducks on the river?” Pat asked Ed.

The boys face fell momentarily, “No.”

“That’s alright, we can check again when we leave,” His mother said, making him perk up again at the prospect as she addressed Pat again, “How was physio?”

Pat gave an over-dramatic sigh but didn’t loose his smile, “Exhausting, as usual. Managed to do most of it with the cane today.”

“That’s great! You’re really coming along in leaps and bounds then.” Gina said with slight humor in her voice.

“If only!” He laughed, “They’re keen to see me go, I’ve been signing release papers day in, day out! I haven’t done this much deskwork in years.”

 

Seeing Gina and Edward had been the carrot to the stick of today’s physiotherapy session, enough motivation for Mulligan to stick it out with minimal complaining. He’d only started to walk with a cane a few weeks prior but was making about as much progress as Bambi on ice, all uneven and random in terms of development. The lack of a logical, linear progression towards whatever strength he was going to get back frustrated him to no end. At least it was easier to stand up and move around – getting from his bed to the bathroom he could do, but standing unassisted for longer then a few minutes was unbearable. The cane was helping, but Pat still had a lot of progress to make. Going up a few steps took a while, but he got there with typical stubbornness, but going down them was torturous – he’d gotten to the top of the little set of steps in the physiotherapy rooms in a fairly acceptable level of pain, but took one step back down and was shaking so bad he tapped out and took the ramp back to his chair.

 

They continued in silence for a few moments until Ed, seeing his father’s room number ahead, tugged from Gina’s grasp again.

“Easy on, Ed, look out for everyone else!” She called after him, though they were only a few yards away. The boy beat them both to the room and rushed to the window to peer outside.

His parents paused by the door, Pat bemused by the boys seemingly boundless energy.

Out of earshot of their son, Gina became more serious. “Do you feel like you’re making progress, they’re not rushing you to get you out of here?”

Pat’s smile faded towards a grimace, “I keep surprising myself with how much I can do, but honestly, it’s not _consistent,_ it’s a gamble at the best of times. Guess there’s only going to be one way to find out though. Besides, it’s about time I got out of here.”

“It’s been a _long_ time.” Gina said quietly, watching Ed as the boy stared out the window into the courtyard below.

“Yeah, it has,” Pat agreed, studying the woman’s face. He saw the same pain on her every time they mentioned his accident and he hated it.

 

“Hey,” He put a hand on her arm, drawing her gaze to him, “Thank you. For sticking with me – and I’m sorry.”

“For what?” Gina’s brow furrowed.

“For anything, for everything, ” He said, “I don’t know what I did, but I am so sorry for _whatever_ it was.”

Gina’s expression tightened uncomfortably. “Pat...”

The man pushed on before he lost his resolve. “I mean it. I don’t expect you to tell me, I can see what it’s done, and whatever it was I want to say that I’m sorry and move past it. We might not be together but we’ve still got a kid to raise – if you’re ok with that?”

Gina gave him a halfhearted shove, barely a tap on his arm. “Of course I’m still alright with that, you idiot.”

With that, she continued into the room with Pat in tow. Ed turned as they entered and trotted happily back towards him.

 

“So buddy,” Pat scooped up the wandering boy onto his lap mid-jump again, as was quickly becoming habit for the pair, “Off to a party this afternoon, eh? Going to have fun?”

“Yes! We’re going to be the Avengers!” Ed said, looking genuinely excited and tugging at the sleeve of his Captain America themed jumper, a match for his backpack, shaped like the legendary supersoldier’s shield.

“It was all bed before six and now it’s parties - It’s happened so fast, I can’t believe it!” Gina said from her seat on the bed.

“You’re telling me! What are you feeding him?” Pat laughed. Ed squirmed on his lap and he let him down slowly, sitting back up with a wince Gina didn’t miss. “Are you OK?”

Pat gave a dismissive wave of his hand. “Yeah, one of those soft days. They really put me through my paces in training!”

Edward went back to jumping around the room, completely taken with the mantle of Captain America fighting invisible assailants neither of his parents seemed aware of.

 

“That reminds me…” Gina plucked her handbag – less of a bag and more of a duffle – from the foot of the bed and went through it to produce a manila folder dripping with post-it notes.

“Wow, what’s all this?” Pat steered himself over to the bedside with a gentle push, wary of Ed who was still fascinated with the wheelchair – the boy was momentarily still to watch the chair before resuming the façade of combat.

“I know you’ll be looking for a place soon, and I know the computers here are a whole wing away, so I figured I’d do a little digging for you.” The woman spread the folder on the end of the bed, revealing printed sheets of apartments for lease, highlighters marking out rates, addresses, and handwritten notes on accessibility.

Pat felt gratitude well up in his chest, threatening to bring a tear to his eye.

“Gina… this is amazing.” He said quietly, fixing her with a grateful look. “Thank you. Really.”

Gina shrugged it off with a smile. “I’m just trying to help. Ed and I can’t wait for you to get out of here, so we can see you more.”

The boy in question heard his name and came jumping up to Pat’s side. “We found some houses for you!”

“Yeah, buddy! Hopefully soon I’ll be closer. I know it’s really out of your way coming all the way down here.” Pat aimed the last part at Gina.

Truthfully, he hadn’t even begun to look for a new apartment, he was spending most of his good days recovering from the really bad days, and the small library with internet access – for $3 an hour, the first hour free for hospital patients, on one of the five boxy desktops with clunky keyboards all part of the dated experience – was a good thirty minutes of solid effort away because there was only one elevator to that floor, and it was on the opposite end of the wing the library was in.

 

There was a sharp rap of knuckles on wood, drawing both their attention up to the door.

 

Flash’s now familiar figure stopped in the doorway, seeing the rather busy room.

“I’m interrupting something, aren’t it?” He said.

“Not at all, come in.” Pat waved his friend in as Gina intercepted the over-eager kid before he could swamp the newcomer with questions, hefting him onto the bed.

Pat shook Flash’s hand warmly, with less of a wince this time, Flash noticed, and shifted his seat to introduce him to Gina.

“This is Gina, and that rowdy gremlin is Ed, my son.” The words still brought a mixture of quiet awe and pride to Pat, he supposed he’d never be used to saying them. “Gina, this is Flash.”

“Nice to meet you, ma’am.” Flash dipped his head to Gina, not pushing the carefully avoided line of inquiry into their relationship – he’d never seen a wedding band on Pat. Instead, his lazy grin widened at the sight of Edward, decked out in all his Captain America regalia. “You never told me you had a kid? A fan of the Captain, to boot.”

“Yup, though I’m sure by this time next month he’ll be off to college.” Pat said.

“It seems a bit like that, doesn’t it?” Gina laughed at the thought.

“Your chair is shiny, can I touch it?” Ed leaned forwards against his mother’s grip, keenly inspecting the new chair.

Gina gave Flash an apologetic look and mouthed ‘ _Sorry!’_ but Flash seemed nonplussed.

“Sure.” He replied, hand flickering to the break – it moved without his bidding, Venom rather acutely aware of the young boy’s prodding.

_You good?_

- _Fine.-_ The symbiont purred, almost disinterested but not quite withdrawing back to dormancy.

 

Released from Gina’s hold, Ed hopped off the bed and began a close inspection of Flash’s chair.

“Watch him, he’ll probably go through your bag!” Gina warned.

“I will not!” Ed piped up, seemingly aghast at the idea. “Why is your chair shiny?”

Flash chuckled. “It’s painted with a special paint.”

Ed’s attention had been drawn to the bag and he managed to read the faded label on the side. “Were you in the army?” He exclaimed.

“I was.” Flash replied.

“Did you know Captain America?” Edward asked, making what was to him a fairly logical leap.

“Not everyone in the army knows Captain America, Ed!” Pat said, sparing his friend a look but was relieved to see the other man unworried.

“I might have met him once or twice…” Flash said, turned to look over the arm of his chair at the boy. He held back a grimace, thinking back to stealing the Captain’s bike after having dropped aforementioned supersoldier off a cliff.

Edward’s eyes widened to the point of bugging out of his head. “Wow!”

“Now you’ve done it!” Gina exclaimed.

Flash looked up at her almost guiltily. “What? I did.”

“You’ve got to be kidding!” Pat laughed, making a mental note to ask more about that later, though he expected nothing more then Flash having to stand through an address by the Captain.

 

“So, what’s all this? They letting you out of here finally? When?” Flash didn’t miss the mess of papers on the bed.

“Yeah, finally, in a few weeks. I’ve gotta find a place, but Gina has beaten me to the punch.” Pat explained.

Flash was thoughtful for a moment. “If you’d like, I can ask around at the VA? There’s a lot of people in contact with a heap of stuff, usually someone knows somebody else that can point you in the right direction?”

“I hadn’t even thought of that.” Pat said, “That would be great!”

“Between the three of us, I’m sure we’ll find something.” Gina added. There was a giddy beep from her pocket. “We better get going or we’ll be late for the party, Ed!”

 

There was a sudden bustle of movement as the woman drew Edward away from the chair and gathered her things, leaving the apartment printouts on the bed with Pat.

“Alright buddy, time to go! Have fun, alright?” Pat said to his son, holding his shield-shaped backpack up for him to shrug on.

“Yup!” The toddler declared seriously, before turning and looking like he was going to charge Pat for another hug.

“Hold on there, tiger, not again! What do we ask?” Gina’s tone was stern, but not harsh, enough to stop the young boy in his tracks for once. His brows furrowed for a second before he piped up again: “Can I hug you?”

Patrick’s smile widened and he leant forwards with open arms. “Sure, kiddo!”

His son raced into his embrace and Pat hefted him up so as not to strain his already tender back. He held the embrace until Edward, keen to keep moving, squirmed, and he released him back to his mother. “Bye Dad! Gotta go now!”

 

Gina sighed, rolling her eyes comically at the now impatient kid.

“He’s ready to go then!” She shouldered her bag and took Ed by the hand. “We’ll be back again soon, I’ll message you after I sort out the next playtime. Let me know how you go with those apartments, alright?”

“Will do, and thank you, again.” Pat said meaningfully. “Drive safely?”

“Always.” Gina replied, momentarily pulled off balance by Edward straining towards the door. “Oh geez, sorry, looks like the Captain is going _right now!_ It was nice to meet you Flash – Ok, Ed, slow down, we’re going!”

“Bye Flash!” Ed called, waving brightly at the man and then attempting a salute.

“Bye Cap.” The man returned the salute with a snappy one of his own, making the kid beam. “Nice to meet you both!”

The pair bustled out of the room, leaving the friends in relative silence.

 

“Well, she’s really got that whole organization thing together.” Flash remarked after a moment.

“Gina’s a force of nature, always has been.” Pat said with a soft laugh. “So, you back in again for more punishment – I mean, physio?”

It was Flash’s turn to laugh. “Nah, not today. Actually thought I might pay you a visit, hadn’t heard from you in a while.”

“It’s mostly been paperwork, honestly. Discharge summaries, final scans, bloods, being grilled by the psychs.” Pat sighed, gathering the papers back into the folder and resolving to go over them later if he had the energy.

“The whole circus then – how are you feeling about it all?” Flash leant back and regarded his friend.

Patrick looked healthier then the last few times he’d seen him, had regained some muscle mass even if it was all lean weight. A diet of hospital food was hard to gain _any_ body mass on, Flash himself had lost 40 pounds during his recovery – he hadn’t been that light since highschool, and even then only briefly.

 

“If I wasn’t exhausted by it all I’d be feeling pretty excited. It’s been a few long years.” Pat admitted, thinking briefly back his evening torments with a withheld sigh – he still hadn’t let on to the psychological team the exact nature of his nightly unrest, fearing a further delay in his release. He was momentarily lost in the recollection, the dream with a pull like a sinkhole, taking him back to the feeling of being unmade by flames, guilt returning like bile rising in the back of his throat.

 

Simultaneously Flash felt a slight prickly feeling settle across the back of is neck as if a cold draft had just blown across it, and glanced at the window – it was closed. Unease began to grow within him, usually this signaled nothing good. Venom, lulled mostly into dormancy by disinterest, woke and became an icy specter in Flash’s mind.

 _Did you feel that?_ He asked silently. _It felt like –_

 _-Yes -_ Venom interjected icily. _–It felt like another… of us.-_

 _It can’t be, right?_ Flash mentally made a tally of other symbionts: Carnage was in prison bonded to the meat puppet remains of Cletus Kasady, and Toxin – _Toxin is dead, there’s no way it survived that fire. We saw the remains._

Venom fell silent but retained their icy, spiny presence.

 

“Sorry, I kinda ducked out there for a moment.” Mulligan said suddenly, bringing everyone out of their respective silences.

Pat poured himself a glass of water, downing it like a shot of gin to wash away the bitterness. Turning back to Flash, he lifted the jug. “Sorry, did you want a glass?”

Flash waved away the offer, “No, thanks, I’m alright, got water in my – Oh, hell, what now?”

 

Flash’s own phone shrilled from his pocket and he dug it out as fast as he could, grimacing when he saw the redacted number. Very few people had his mobile number, and even fewer rung it from closed lines. “Sorry, won’t be a second.”

 

“Hello?” He answered, turning his chair away from Pat as he directed his attention to the call.

“Mr Thompson?” A brisk voice asked in a clipped DC accent.

“Speaking.” Flash replied curtly. He knew a SHIELD agent when they rang.

“You have an urgent tasking. A handler will meet you outside the southern entrance in ten minutes to brief you.”

“Yeah, no worries.” Flash glanced at the watch on his wrist – he’d have to leave now. He’d long since stopped being surprised that SHIELD new his whereabouts to within a few meters of his phone.

“Ten minutes.” The operator instructed sternly.

“I’ll meet you there. Bye.” Flash hung up and shoved the phone back in his pocket with a little more aggression then it deserved, face carefully blank as he turned back to Pat. “Sorry, just had some VA stuff come up. It’ll give me a chance to ask about housing though, I’ll let drop you a line as soon as anything worthwhile pops up.”

“That’s alright, I think I’m going to be poor company the rest of the afternoon, physio and Ed - that kid really wears me out, dunno how Gina deals with him 24/7!” Pat stated with tired incredulity.

“Hey, seriously, let me know if you need help with any of this, alright? Been through it before.” Flash said as he turned again to leave.

“That’d be great. See you, Flash.” Pat waved to his friend, who returned a hasty one over his shoulder as he left.

 

\---

 

SHIELD had given him a perfectly timed window, even if he dawdled a little. He was in no mood to rush simply for the sake of large government organizations with ambiguous mission statements and too much funding.

 Flash had barely exited the hospital when he spotted the handler. Her casual attire – jeans and a shawl over a top – did little to hide the purpose with which she moved, though he would have missed her earpiece if he didn’t know to look for it; it was a sleek black piece, blending well with her dark skin and hidden under loose hair.

 

“Mr. Thompson.” The Agent said, the closest he knew he would get to a warm greeting.

“Ma’am.” Flash replied. Venom, still a wary, icy phantom at the back of his mind, became sharper. Neither of them particularly liked or trusted SHIELD, but the symbiont had a particular distaste for the organization that had helped to detain them.

“I’m Agent Sasha Creek. I will be your point of contact for this tasking.” The woman began.

“Let’s go for a walk.” Flash said, pushing off along the pathway that girted the parking lot by the riverside. The SHIELD handler fell into pace beside him, waiting until they were well out of earshot of any civilians.

“We’ve recently gained some information about something you might be familiar with – the Toxin symbiote.” Agent Sasha Creek continued.

Flash fixed her with a sharp look. “What about Toxin? Toxin is dead.”

“So it would appear.” The woman tapped busily on her phone as she walked. “However, we found this amongst a weapons depot used by Eddie Brock – whom I believe you know also.”

Flash’s phone shrilled again and he slowed for a moment to look at the data packet. The images were typical of a crime scene being processed – evenly washed by a high exposure flash, rendering them strangely depthless – showing a corkboard with newspaper clippings and photographs of varying qualities, some blurred and others in sharp focus, all of them showing – “Symbiotes.” Flash realized.

 

He saw the now familiar visceral mess of Carnage, picked his own figure – one or two of his usual Agent Venom appearance, a smaller blurred polaroid of himself and Venom looking considerably more enraged – amidst others. Venom stirred more, intrigued, but didn’t comment.

“Yes. Some we knew of, others that we didn’t.” The Agent confirmed.

Flash raised a brow at her. “SHIELD doesn’t know _all_ the symbiotes loose out there?”

“They can be hard to find.” She didn’t react to the jibe at all.

“I recognize Venom, Carnage… and that must be Toxin.” Flash pinched the photo to zoom, but it lost resolution on his phone screen.

“Toxin’s old host is the tasking.” Agent Creek stated.

“Old host?” Flash muttered as he read through the packet. He hadn’t really thought about it, but it made sense that Toxin had previous hosts – Venom at least seemed aware of that, but wasn’t giving away anything more then a general sense of recognition. Flash started to form a question in his mind but the symbiote’s presence recoiled whip-fast behind a cold wall, as if wary of giving some secret away.

Unaware of this, Agent Creek continued to explain: “We found no traces of the Toxin symbiote on Brock’s corpse during post-mortem analysis – it could be that the symbiote was totally destroyed in the fire, or that –”

 

“What the fuck?” Flash exclaimed, stopping his swiping through the dataset at a photograph of a New York police officer, young and beaming with pride on what must be graduation from the academy, but unmistakably familiar.

It was Pat. Flash could even make out the brassy dress uniform nametag reading _‘Mulligan’_ above the young officer’s breast pocket.

Agent Creek was, as ever, unruffled by his outburst. “Keep looking.”

 

Flash swiped left to a motion-blurred photo taken through some kind of telephoto lens, by the crosshairs and range, of a sleek figure vaulting across the gap between two buildings. The long claws and pale eyespots were a dead giveaway to it’s nature, but he couldn’t quite recognize the colours – mostly red, like Carnage, but nowhere near as chaotic in appearance, tipped with the oily black he was personally familiar with. The image caption read ‘TOXIN circa 2007’.

“This was Toxin?” Flash asked incredulously as his mind fought to drive the two photos together, to link his friend with a thing of such hatred. He had no idea Toxin was that _old_ , to begin with, having encountered the symbiont, unbonded, less then a year prior.

 _Is this real, is this – was this Toxin?_ He directed wordlessly to his partner.

Venom was quiet, stonewalling him.

 

Agent Creek regarded him silently, waiting for him to put forward what he was trying desperately to avoid.

“You’re telling me that _monster_ was bonded to Patrick Mulligan?” Flash snarled, uncaring of any passer’s by.

“Yes.” The woman said, still professionally calm.

“And you’re absolutely sure?” He pressed.

“We’ve confirmed it with someone who could be regarded as an expert with these creatures.” Creek replied.

Flash wasn’t satisfied. “Who?”

“You don’t have clearance for that.” The Agent shut down the inquiry sharply in the only show of any emotion Flash had seen the entire conversation.

“Great - and what do you want me to do with that particular bombshell?” The man relented, in no mood to deal with intelligence services pulling rank.

“You’re being tasked with monitoring Mulligan to ensure that Toxin hasn’t survived and rejoined its old host.” Creek instructed.

Flash’s eyes narrowed. “Monitor? That’s all?”

“That’s all, yes. Secondary to your other duties, of course,” Agent Creek started walking again, “We consider the Toxin symbiote a very real threat, if it is still alive.”

Flash wheeled along after her, still trying to digest the revelation. “And if it isn’t? If Toxin really is properly dead?”

“Then the tasking will be removed and Patrick Mulligan will be free to go about his life.” She said.

“And what if,” Flash began, barely able to form the sentence, “Toxin is alive and has returned to Patrick?”

Agent Creek looked at him with an almost careless gaze, stating cooly: “Then, Mr. Thompson, Toxin will be dealt with.”

Flash was silent.

Creek took that as a chance to end the briefing. “It’s simple. Monitor Mr. Mulligan, let us know if Toxin returns and is a threat. We’ll deal with it, and you can return to your regular duties.”

“Yes, ma’am.” Flash said sullenly.

“You have a direct line to the relevant people in the packet. If you’ve no further questions?” Agent Creek paused, and upon receiving no such intrusion from the man, continued, “Then you have your task. Good day, Mr. Thompson. We’ll be in touch.”

 

With that, the woman turned and disappeared into the car park, leaving Flash to grapple with the information.

 

He flicked aimlessly between the photo of a younger Patrick and then the three other images of Toxin provided by Brock’s depot, disbelieving. The last file in Brock’s collection was jarring: a short, soundless video cut from a surveillance camera at street level showing the middle of a gunfight, muzzle flashes illuminating an alleyway across the road, and within it, something else.

Two human figures came flying out of the alleyway, thudded into the storefront and remained motionless. A lone shooter backed out of the alleyway, firing some sort of automatic rifle madly – the video was too low res to see any other detail then rate of fire. Something _else_ flew out of the dark laneway, ducking lithely under the gunfire, grabbing the rifle in one long-clawed hand and sweeping the man’s legs out from under him with the other.

 Toxin was clearly angry, rippling with a mess of tendrils and much heavier set then the earlier photos, face split clearly by ragged teeth.

The symbiont lifted the gunman by an ankle until the man’s head was level with their own and made some kind of graphic threat if the man’s struggling was anything to go by. Flash almost tapped away from the video – he could stomach violence but the idea that his friend was the one causing it was almost too much for him - but he had to watch.

Despite whatever threat they had made, Toxin committed no more savagery then to give the man a swift cuff to the head, enough to still him. Flash prayed he was only unconscious, watching as Toxin gathered the three gunmen and seemingly webbed them to a light post. Suddenly, the symbiont snapped to attention, staring away down the street. There was a second of stillness and then they surged away, video ending as soon as they were out of frame.

The man pocketed his phone and ran a hand through his hair, mind spinning. Why hadn’t he heard of Toxin before? Carnage was an infamous household name, but he’d never heard even a whisper of another symbiont active in the area, especially not one that SHIELD was so obviously worried about.

Flash turned his attention to Venom, who was still carefully quiet.

 

 _Did you know?_ Flash demanded angrily.

 _-Know what, that Toxin was originally bonded to Mulligan? What does it matter?-_ The symbiont tried to shrug off his anger with nonchalance.

 _It matters to me!_ Flash let out an angry hiss of breath as he made his way down the footpath towards the train station. _You recognized him and you didn’t think to maybe warn me? Not even when we picked up on Toxin – oh, fuck!_

Flash stopped his chair in its tracks, uncaring of the pedestrians moving around him. _What is that monster going to do with Patrick?_

 _-Probably try to kill us again.-_ Venom sounded utterly disinterested.

 _Not without killing Pat first; he couldn’t fight his way out of a wet paper bag right now!_ Worry began to churn Flash’s mind as he thought of Cletus Kasady’s blank face distorting into a warped grin as Carnage puppeted his body, thought of Brock’s screams as he was dragged back into hungry flames.

 _-So that means we’ll be taking this post then…-_ Venom sounded almost disappointed.

Flash set off down the footpath again with an air of steely determination. _You fucking bet – nothing is going to happen to Pat on our watch._

_-Our watch?-_

_Yes, our watch. We should have made sure Toxin was dead the last time. _There was an unspoken fear of what that would mean for his friend, if he was indeed bonded, but Flash couldn’t think about that now.

 _-They do know that we can hide from each other?-_ Venom commented almost lazily as Flash waited for the lift to the station to trundle downwards.

 _Probably. I don’t think this is just about surveillance... Why else send us?_ Flash thought bitterly. He was definitely not his own first pick for a surveillance mission – you didn’t waste a tank delivering the mail. SHIELD had countless other infinitely more qualified observers, sending he and Venom chasing ghosts was like battleships crossing into disputed waters under the guise of ‘freedom of navigation exercises’; thinly veiled displays of force meant to remind old enemies of their powerful foes. The man pushed through the throngs of people towards the front of the platform to wait for the train, ceaselessly spinning the black ring on his finger, as had become habit.

 

 _No,_ He mused to Venom, _This isn’t surveillance. This is containment._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A long one! Finally some good plot progress. Thanks for sticking with me!


	5. Relocation and Revelations

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Patrick has been released at long last back into the wilds to return to a normal life, whether he feels ready or not. Will his unwitting reunion with Toxin help or hinder his housewarming?
> 
> CW: Suicidal ideation.

**Early December**

The release and the resulting move had happened at warp speed. Once the process started, it gathered momentum like an avalanche, sweeping Patrick up in paperwork, phonecalls, last minute assessments, lost details, _new_ details, enough to overwhelm him. He went along on autopilot, barely aware of anything but putting one foot in front of the other. At long last, a fortnight later, the maelstrom had spat him out and he found himself still, standing by the bathroom door in his new apartment.

 

Gina had left some time ago – hours, maybe? Was it even still the same day? – and he dimly recalled Flash helping some time earlier, Meadows had even taken time out of his busy schedule and made an appearance, claiming any excuse to get away from his desk. Not that Pat had that much to move out of storage, not after spending four years living from a suitcase.

Mulligan looked around at the apartment, as if taking it in properly for the first time. It felt too big, too empty. The microwave clock blinked, the display ticking from 19:04 to 19:05 and he caught himself expecting a nurse to bustle in with the evening’s medication and interrogation before dinner then remembered exactly where he was. He was alone.

 

Alone.

 

The enormity of everything loomed large in his mind.

Exhaustion hit him like someone had ripped the carpet out from under his feet, sending his mind spinning from the fugue state it had been in all day. It spooked and screamed towards panic like a train derailing. Self disgust flared as it went, his temper fouling dangerously, pushing him towards an edge- he’d made a mistake, he couldn’t do this, he shouldn’t have left, what was he going to do? Envelops of paperwork, the landlord’s incoming report, all waiting to be filled on the kitchen bench. What pitiful few belongings he had, still in boxes around the lifeless shell of the apartment –his life, reduced to cardboard boxes and paperwork, neither of which he was dealing with. Everything he still had to do, everything he _might_ have to do, everything he _couldn’t_ do. He was _useless_ , head too full of holes, and at the end of the day, he was doing all of it alone.

He thought it would be different, being given back control of his life. His choices were entirely his own now and it _terrified_ him. The options his mind suggested were of a particular genre he’d worked hard to avoid – that maybe it was better he left, just passed into obscurity, if he was just not there anymore. That would tie up as many of his loose ends as he could. What if he chose to just simply quit, not a passing, not a leaving, just a cessation of being?

A train clattered somewhere nearby and Mulligan started as if he’d been stung – memories warped the noise into a roar, a screaming whistle, the feeling of empty space in front of him, the great rush of air as the F-line punched through the subway towards the station he stood on, sucking him forwards, and him going without the care to pull himself back, leaning into it, even _pushing_ towards it –

 

_NO!_

 

Something punched through the recollection, tearing it back into a million nonsense fragments. It dragged Patrick back, back from the edge of the gyre, back into himself and bound him there so tightly he _felt_ it like a physical blow. He turned, scrambling into the bathroom, and gripped the cold porcelain of the sink hard enough his arms shook as nausea threatened to upturn either his stomach or his balance, whichever went first.

 

_-Patrick Mulligan, don’t you fucking dare!-_ A voice thundered, at once all around him but only in his head.

The man flinched – or he tried, but he couldn’t, his body wasn’t responding. There was _something else_ rushing into his racing mind, flooding it with cold anger that locked it in it’s steps, snap-freezing the trainwreck in its death throes.

_“Whatever you were just thinking of doing, you can think again, because it’s not happening!”_ The voice spat again, from his own mouth this time.

Pat wheeled in wordless confusion, thoughts turning now to fears of a stroke, of some kind of seizure - was this actually it, was he dying here, in this tiny bathroom of this mediocre apartment?

_“You most certainly are not dying!”_ This other voice said.

The force inside him him twisted and a cold chill ran down his spine, fizzling out in the ever-present knot of pain that was his lumbar.

“What- who?” He managed to gasp in between rolling nausea and forcing air into lungs that seemed not to want to take it.

_-You really don’t remember?-_

“Remember what?!”

_-Remember me!-_

 

There was a heartbeat of frigid tension. Then, the icewater feeling surged, humming painlessly through his damaged nerves, into every bone, every fiber of his being. He was not alone – there was someone else. Some _thing_ else, soaked in blood and wreathed in flames, clawing its way back to safety, something _begging_ in a haze of white-noise whispers; he could feel it working through his veins like radiocontrast but _colder,_ like a poison but _sharper_ , seeping like a –

 

“Toxin!”

 

As soon as Patrick spoke the name, the calamity of his fragmented memories aligned in a brief moment of syzygy and he _knew_ this other. He saw their own memories interwoven between his own, saw the threads of them coiled and tangled with himself, feeling them drawn taut by relief and joy. A vicious twist of guilt burned through this web in a cacophony of fire and blood, driving them out of alignment - they _both_ flinched, drawing apart.

 

It had been enough. Enough that Patrick knew. Enough that he wished he didn’t.

 

_Oh God, I’ve lost it._ Patrick hadn’t set foot in a church as long as he’d been in hospital, hadn’t been any closer to a crucifix then the one on the cover neglected bible shoved to the back of the drawer of the bedside table of his ward room. He hadn’t raised his voice in prayer in years, but in that moment, he was damn tempted to start again then and there. 

_-Lost it? No, I found you - This is real, I am real!- _Toxin cawed, voice barely loud enough for him to make out above the thunder of his heartbeat

“How do I know you’re real? How do I know I’m not just lying to myself to make myself feel better? I could’ve just dreamed you up as a convenient excuse for _whatever_ it is I’ve done!” Mulligan’s grip on the sink became white-knuckled and he hissed the words through a jaw clenched in equal parts pain and panic.

_-Does this look like real enough?-_

The panic he felt turned suddenly to desperate rage. His head snapped up and he found himself locking gazes with his reflection – and then he changed.

 

It looked like it should hurt but it didn’t – _it never does, never had, remember?_ – and for a split second the man had to fight disgust at the sight of himself being engulfed by something alien. Red poured over him – _us? –_ in snaking tendrils only to be split by black on the ends of limbs as if they’d been dunked in oil. Every inch was lean muscle, wiry, not exactly impressive – _when did you loose so much weight, there’s so little of you left_?– but clearly menacing. There was a moment of cognitive dissonance as he realized he was seeing without actual eyes – just wide white eyespots, sharp and angled, rimmed in the same inky black – but that fell by the wayside as he saw the teeth.

Long, jet black, jagged like chips of obsidian – _They never used to be black?_ Pat found himself thinking distantly – they cut the otherwise featureless head in a ragged tear. Looking down, he saw the edge of the sink gripped by wicked claws of the same colour, and knew with macabre certainty there was little they couldn’t cut. Their mind lit with flashbulbs of people falling under vicious swipes, flesh yielding no resistance; he felt his stomach churn but the memories were driven viciously back by the other in his head.

Then the shock passed, the terrifying dysphoria faded, and it was all _familiar_ and comforting in such a way he couldn’t rectify it. He remembered the feeling of this figure, the certainty in it, of knowing _exactly_ what it could do. Toxin was silent, a tense pressure inside of him, waiting for his reaction.

Patrick’s mind was a tempest of confusion. How could this _monster_ be comforting to him? How could this form he _knew_ had killed people be so reassuring? How could he look at this thing and _love it?_ Not like loving the cheap thrill of the anonymity of a Halloween mask, not like the confidence of knowing people would look at him like this and think twice before starting anything, but like looking on the face of someone he’d feared lost and now recovered.

 

“Enough.” He croaked.

  
He shut his eyes – or however that worked with no discernible eyes – and waited until he could feel a normal grip on the sink, no claws resting against the slick surface. Toxin withdrew from the physical back into their shared consciousness. 

The man looked back up at himself, human, dully noting he was as pale as the wall behind him. He felt his legs start to give out from the shock and fought to get back to the bed before his body gave out entirely. He made it, if only just, sitting heavily on the mattress and sagging.

The image of himself - of _them_ , he remembered now – was seared onto the back of his eyelids in high resolution. He tried not to think about it but his mind worked away at parsing it from head to toe. As it did, it brought with it memories.

Not all of them, but a multitude surfacing suddenly in his mind as if they had only been waiting for Toxin to manifest, as if that had been the key to some lock he had never known was there.

Grief and guilt mixed with shock in a potent brew he had no strength to fight.

 

“Why did you come back? Why did you let me remember?” Pat’s throat was in a stranglehold of emotions, forcing him to choke the words out.

_-Would you really rather forget? I can leave, I’ll take everything, you’ll forget again. Would it really be better?-_ Toxin offered all in a rush. They didn’t say that they had no other choice, they couldn’t risk it, couldn’t risk loosing him again so soon, not when they were barely strong enough to front.

Pat was quiet for a long time. He could feel the symbiote, a mess of fear and nerves, their own grief resonating with his own to strike a shared chord that shook with terrible longing.

“…No. Ignorance wasn’t bliss, it was hell.”

He made his decision. He put his head in his hands, still biting back exhausted tears. “Stay. Please. We need to… I need you to help me work this all out.”

Toxin’s presence curled cautiously around his consciousness like smoke, feeling light as if a stray breeze might drive it into oblivion. _–You really want me to stay? Even if it’s worse? Even if it hurts you?_

Mulligan grimaced bitterly, swinging his legs up onto the bed and laying down. “It already hurts. It can’t take much more away from me.”

 

The symbiote didn’t reply. Just as well that they didn’t, they felt Pat’s consciousness finally submit, forced under by exhaustion and in moments, he was asleep. He was still hurting – Toxin felt as if they could barely move without brushing a raw nerve - but carefully settled over his mind like a heavy blanket, and let him rest.

_\----_

For the first time in a while, there was nothing. No nightmares. He slept too heavily to be disturbed by pain.

 

When Patrick woke, everything was still and silent – or as still and as silent as one could get barely eight floors above street level, and far noisier then the ward had been. The apartment was still too new to comfort him, still strange and dreamlike after years in a hospital room. Stranger yet, his head felt… _empty._ Patrick couldn’t feel anything – or _anyone_ – else in his mind.

 

Dull panic started to build in him. What if he had just hallucinated the entire thing, if he’d had some kind of mental break, the stress of leaving the ward too much? There as only one way to find out. He was almost to afraid to ask, to confirm everything he’d remembered as fact, to accept that he was not alone.

 

_“_ …Toxin?” He asked, voice quiet with fear.

The reaction was immediate. Toxin’s presence condensed in his mind like fog, hovering but not smothering.

Mulligan sighed with relief, though it was mixed with a twist of bitter resignation _. Where did you go?_

_-I didn’t leave. I was waiting. I wanted to make sure you meant it. That I can stay.-_ Toxin shifted gingerly, like Pat’s mind was made of eggshell they didn’t trust themselves to hold without breaking.

_I meant it._ He really did.

 

Pat rubbed his hands over his face and swung his legs off the side of the bed, the mattress creaking, still new and stiff. At least it didn’t crinkle every time he moved like the plastic covers on the mattresses in a wardroom. He looked down at his hands in the weak light of a grey city morning and was almost disappointed to see they were the same as always, faded scars and all. Part of him was unconvinced that last night had even happened, even with Toxin settled into his mind like sea fret.

 

He stood slowly, limbs still heavy with sleep and fatigue, but determined. “Show me again.”

- _Are you sure?-_ Toxin was wary – they could feel the fatigue in Patrick just as well as he himself could, could feel how it had leeched all the way into his bones. They’d never admit how much of that burden was theirs.

“Just… do it.”

The symbiote obliged.

 

Pat watched his figure seethe, form distorting, with less nausea now he was prepared for it. It felt more familiar, more _reassuring_ this time. They looked the same; a lithe red shape tipped in black. Their face, though, was stoic, featureless save for the angled eyespots.

“No teeth this time?” He commented, trying not to think too hard about how he could talk without an apparent mouth.

_-Did you miss them that much?-_ Toxin purred, and Pat felt their face distort suddenly into a black, saw-toothed grin. These ragged teeth had a bite that he knew, by virtue of Toxin, would be venomous.

_That’s new._ He couldn’t remember that, granted his recall was still in shambles.

_-I’m full of surprises.-_ The symbiote growled – Pat could _feel_ it rumbling in their chest and past their teeth – teeth that grew in length and number as Toxin’s mouth twisted wider in a leer.

Pat went to move an arm but stopped, not sure if he could, if his body would obey him – was it really his body any more?

Toxin felt his hesitation. _–You can move, you know that.-_ They reassured their host.

Pat did. He flexed one long-clawed hand, black glinting with flashes of noxious green, noting a millisecond of lag in the movements, so quick that he couldn’t be sure if it was his own hesitation or not. He raised their hand to touch the streak of black across their chest. He didn’t remember that, or the others like it he could see – he could _feel -_ across their body. It took him a moment but suddenly he clicked to what they were.

_Scars – that’s what these are, aren’t they? My scars._ He asked silently.

Toxin agreed wordlessly.

_Why show them?_

The symbiont was quiet for a moment before replying quietly _–As a reminder.-_

Pat felt Toxin’s presence gain a stinging bitterness and didn’t press the odd memento.

Instead, he tried to focus on their form, standing motionless, letting the last of his shock fade until he could only feel familiarity. He felt all at once the same but like never before. His mind was still a mess but he felt Toxin slowly connecting the gaps he hadn’t been able to in their absence, following a map only they remembered.

 

The stillness didn’t last long.

 

He felt Toxin grow impatient, apprehension building like a coiling spring until they were tremoring like a plucked string – and Patrick _laughed_. That much hadn’t changed in Toxin and it was something so small, so mundane, it was whimsical.

The alarm on his bedstand gave a sudden, angry chirp.

_Shit. Meds._ He’d missed last night’s after the grand reveal, but he knew better than to double up.

 

“Alright!” He said, “I think I’ve seen enough for now.”

 

Toxin’s figure retreated, returning his humanity along with all the aches and pains of usual. His back was starting to protest standing for so long unaided and his stomach growled loudly, reminding him he was yet to eat. Pat reached for his cane and made a beeline for the kitchenette.

Mulligan brewed himself a coffee – strong, like always, but now a rare treat when he had to be careful what he ate when and with what medications. As it steeped, he made himself a modest meal of jam on toast, carrying it carefully to the tiny table set against the wall under the window. Returning to the bench, he tipped the day’s pills from the pillbox, pushed aside the morning ones, and returned the rest. He swept them off the bench into one hand, took his coffee with the other, and sat heavily at the table. By this time his toast was more cold then hot but he didn’t truthfully mind. Toxin lingered, not particularly interested, but just having them there, their coiling presence floating between a stray thought and a half-remembered dream, was absurdly normal like nothing had been in almost four years.

 

“First breakfast in the new place.” Pat stated, lifting his mug in a toast to himself, and his silent partner, but couldn’t think of anything particularly poetic to say. “Welcome home, I guess.”

He took a mouthful of the bitter, scalding coffee, relishing the taste, and felt Toxin hum with satisfaction as if it were their first cup in years.

“Well. This was one hell of a housewarming.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A longer more philosphical chapter but at finally we see the return of the angriest spaghetti monster!


	6. Cabin Fever

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They say the best way to settle into a new life is with the familiarity of an old routine. They don't have to deal with cohabiting with a bored symbiont and a nasty case of cabin fever. Pat relents and reinstates the old Agreement. Besides, how much trouble can Toxin get into in an hour?

The first few days in the new apartment were lost in the fallout after the move.

 

Powered by stubbornness alone, Patrick managed to at least unpack most of his scant few belongings, granted they went from being messes in boxes to mess over benches and tabletops. The apartment still felt strange, like a jacket that just didn’t quite fit right, but the bits that stuck out weren’t what he thought they would be. It was things like the light switches in the bathroom being on the other side of the door than he was used to- he’d slapped the bare wall more times than he could count; it was his bed being up against a wall instead of in the middle of the room, flooding one side of the bed with frigid air off the wall. It wasn’t the noise After years of the relative quiet of hospital wards, the constant background noise of the city proper was a comforting drone.

There was also Toxin.

The symbiont had been quiet, quieter at least than Mulligan remembered, but their presence had grown steadily more unsettled as the days wore on. They peppered Pat with sparse questions that became more inane as their boredom grew– where was Gina, was he going to go back to work, did he know the previous tenant was a chain smoker?

“How am I supposed to know that?” Patrick had laughed, sitting back from the umpteenth change of address forms he had to fill out.

_-Please,-_ Toxin drawled, - _Even with your nose I can smell it.-_

“Really? I can’t smell anything.” Pat said.

Toxin gave a wordless huff of derision and suddenly all Patrick could smell was the stink of stale smoke muddled with the acrid tang of some very strong carpet cleaners.

_-They would have been better off just replacing the carpets.-_ Toxin muttered, letting the scents fade back to relative nothingness.

“God, I’d forgotten how nauseating that can be,” Pat shook his head as much to clear the scent and to take the edge of the sensation.

_-And I had forgotten how dull paperwork is.-_ Toxin grumbled. _-You haven’t left the house for days, don’t you have places to go, people to see?-_

“Buddy, I’ve got so many forms to fill to get my shit in order I’m going to be doing this for weeks!” Pat exclaimed. His wrist hurt like it hadn’t since he’d been in the academy, scribbling notes on uncomfortable tables in illegible script he’d struggle to decipher later.

_-Can’t we at least go out, walk around the block, anything?-_ Toxin badgered. Months of free reign and then nothing was a hard learning curve.

“The longer I put this off, the longer it’s gonna drag out.” Pat muttered, turning his attention back to the task at hand.

Silence reigned for a scant few minutes before Toxin broke it. _– Not even for an hour? Half an hour?-_

Pat took his head in a hand with a tired smile. This, at least, was familiar to him. He looked down at the thick pile of files and felt his resolve slipping. Maybe signing out for an hour would finally let him get some rest.

 

“Ah, what the heck. They told me I need to go back to a familiar schedule, supposed to help me settle in or something.” He said. “An hour. That was the Agreement.”

_-An hour.-_

\---- 

Sundown. Under the freshly lowered cloak of darkness, Toxin was turned loose to do what they may.

 

They thought Pat might have fought their control more, feared the beginning of the same struggle they had to contend with for a year prior, but Mulligan had almost given in gratefully.

The symbiote headed up, scaling a cell tower with ease, and turned their featureless head into the frigid evening breeze. They were buzzing with excitement- a whole new area to explore.

“ _Oh, the possibilities…”_ They said to themselves. For a year, their activities had been at the behest of another, and while Toxin had relished the physicality of being the muscle to Crime Master’s brawn, they savored their freedom more.

After a minute of listening, they were a little disappointed. The neighborhood was quiet, even by city standards. “ _Guess I’ll have to do some leg work.”_

The figure on the tower gathered itself and sprung into the night.

 

They knew where trouble liked to pool on still evenings when the daytime crowds all returned home and it could no longer mask itself in their bustle. It didn’t take them long to find exactly what they were looking for. They worked outwards from the apartment like a dog casting for a scent, searching for anything that might pique their interest.

A lone man smoking in an alleyway might not, at first, seem an interesting target, but Toxin had inherited a gut feel for things from Mulligan. Toxin positioned themselves soundlessly on the wall a few storeys above the man, claws sinking into the brickwork like it was wet clay, and waited.

Before long, their intuition was proved true. Two youths approached on well-used bikes. Toxin’s white eyespots narrowed – the pair were hardly teens, bolstered by their taste of adulthood and blundering witlessly trouble. The smoker reached into one of his jacket’s deep pockets and Toxin readied themselves to spring – but he only drew out another cigarette. The kids rode straight to him, one tossing a chin in greeting.

“W’sup, little man.” The smoker flicked the still-smoking butt into the gutter. “What’ve you got tonight?”

“Enough.” The kid said, and offered the older boy a gaudily coloured pencil case.

The smoker opened the pencil case and Toxin caught the flash of gold and silver from within. “Good haul! What do you want for it?”

“The usual – and Skittles.” The other of the kids said.

“How about half and the candy?”

“Deal.”

The smoker stuffed the pencilcase into one pocket, and drew out a wad of cash and a tiny Ziploc bag from the other. After counting out the money , he handed it to the first kid. “Always happy to oblige.”

“Later, Max!” The kid swiped the money and drugs, turning and riding furiously off into the night with his friend hot on his heels.

Max gave a lazy wave and lit the cigarette, leaning on the wall.

_“You know, Max, those things will kill you.”_ A voice crooned from the dark.

 

The young man felt the hairs on the back of his neck standing up, but was too full of thuggish bravado to let it show. “The fuck does it matter to you?” He drawled, turning to face the speaker.

 

The cigarette dropped from his fingers.

 

The alley was empty – but the wall above him was not. A creature slunk down the brickwork, a rippling, sinuous mix of visceral red and inky black, not that he could see much past the wicked teeth curling below two bright, white eyespots in a wicked leer.

_“Fancy yourself a junior crime boss, do you? What a joke.”_ Toxin drawled, inching closer to the man. They watched the colour drain from his already pale skin and sweat begin to bead on his shaved head. How close _,_ they wondered, could they get before he ran?

" _How about it, boss, man enough to step up?"_ Toxin drew close enough to catch a sharp, almond-like scent on the young man, split with the tang of harsher chemicals, got close enough that Max swore he could see his reflection in the glint of a multitude of teeth – and snapped.

The man’s face twisted with panic as he spat insults, throwing a sloppy haymaker. “Bite me, ugly!”

Toxin caught the wild swing in one taloned hand, ragged grin spreading, taunting.

“Oh, don't tempt me...” They growled laughingly.

 

They threw Max effortlessly down the alley, sending him flying into a pile of thankfully empty boxes. The young man scrambled to his feet but Toxin was in no rush, stalking closer again. It was no fun if he didn’t run. Max started to backpedal clumsily, searching his pockets for something – and a shot ricocheted off the wall beside Toxin. The symbiont bristled – this might just make things worth their while – and gave a hideous, crackling laugh. _“Missed me.”_

Max’s hands were shaking as he tried to line the pistol up again.

The next shot went wide, clear over their shoulder, and through a second story window behind them. Toxin glanced back at the noise of breaking glass – then froze, seeing the toys on the fire escape, the decals of stenciled flowers and crudely drawn spaceships on contact paper stuck to the window pane.

 

Something hot ignited in their chest. They felt themselves loose composure slightly, becoming wilder in form, seething. Max seized their distraction and took off for the o the end of the alleyway in a desperate sprint. The symbiont sprung after the man, closing the distance in a single leap. The tackle threw them both forwards but Toxin recovered, turning the momentum into a roll, flipping Max over again and slamming him into the alley floor. He screamed, the long black claws lancing clear through his chest and shoulder.

 

_“That decides it,”_ Toxin leaned in close, face a mess of teeth, _“You’re toast.”_

The resident that had woken, heart pounding, to gunshots in the alley, followed by glass shattering, froze at her broken kitchen window. Framed by the streetlight at the end of the alley not meters away, she saw something monstrous mantled over a struggling form. The woman caught snatches of a growl, the pinned figure struggling in vain against their attacker, screaming again.

 

A sudden flash of teeth - _so many teeth_ \- the scream cut off with a muted crunch.

 

Toxin spat the bitter mouthful of gore away and sat back off their kill. There was a moment of brutal contentment, a sense of disappointment with how short their little game of cat and mouse had run. That disappointment twisted into panic – _what had they done, they’d killed someone! What was Pat going to say? _The symbiont froze, feeling a bitter guilt starting to churn within them, followed by a hot flush of anger. What did it matter? It hadn’t mattered who or what they killed for a year, why would it now? They didn’t have to tell Mulligan, disclosure was never a part of the Agreement. _No, but neither was homicide!_ One part of themselves nagged bitterly.

Toxin stood with a growl, rippling with agitation.

“H-hey!” A voice called shakily behind them. “I’ve called the cops!”

Toxin spun towards the voice with a rattling hiss of alarm, teeth dripping with gore and inhuman form backlit clearly by the cold streetlight.

 

Anita screamed as the creature turned, revealing the extent of its monstrosity. It flinched at the noise – then launched itself up the opposite wall and vanished into the night, leaving only her shattered window and the ruined corpse in its wake.

 

\----

 

 “And that’s what you saw?” The lady in front of her waited for her response, but saw that Anita had drawn back, eyes glazed with fear.

 

The other woman’s brow creased and she put a hand on Anita’s knee. “Miss Barclay?”

Anita started at the touch. “I’m sorry – yeah, yes. That’s all I saw. A monster.” She said, voice trembling with the threat of tears. “I know it sounds crazy but it wasn’t _human!_ ”

The lady- a welfare officer according to the ID on her lanyard - pulled the shock blanket closer around Anita’s shoulders, careful not to wake the sleeping toddler in her arms. “It doesn’t sound crazy, it sounds terrifying. Do you have someone you can stay with for a few days? Does your daughter need anything?”

“Uh, my brother, I’ve already called him. He should be here soon… will someone let him in?” Anita replied.

“Absolutely, don’t worry. You will get through this.” The welfare officer said kindly. Anita managed a weak smile in return. “Thanks. I think I’ll be alright… Lily is safe, that’s all that matters.”

“I think you’re stronger then you know. I’ll go make sure your brother can find you.” The woman stood, giving her a final smile. “You’re going to be fine, Miss Barclay, we’ll make sure of it.

She turned on her heel and left the room, ducking past a paramedic bringing in a hot mug of tea.

 

The paramedic knelt by Anita’s side with the beverage. “Here you go, this should help. Drink it slowly. How’s your girl?” He asked.

“Sound asleep, it’s incredible.” Anita said, looking down at her sleeping daughter. She started suddenly, making the toddler stir. “Oh no! I didn’t give that welfare lady my number! Will she need it?”

The paramedic gave her a puzzled look. “Welfare? We haven’t called in any welfare officers.”

“What?” Anita said as loud as she dared. “She was just here – you walked right past her, she had really curly hair, a nice suit?”

The paramedic shook his head. “I thought she was a detective, not welfare, because we haven’t called in anyone - but we can if you want?”

Anita felt her fear starting to bite again and decided she didn’t have the energy to deal with this. “No, don’t worry about it. I’ve had enough attention for one night.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally, an update! I've taken some time off to get the plot for this pulled into some semblance of order, and now I'm ready to start ramping things up for these two.
> 
> Thank you everyone for your patience, and thank you so much everyone who's left a comment or kudos. I love hearing back from readers, even if it's to pick up a mistake I missed proofing.

**Author's Note:**

> ....I'm forever bitter about how Toxin was treated and the demise of Pat, likewise the ongoing arc of Flash and Venom, so I've taken them all and I'm writing them a new storyline where they can be happy and recover and be cranky symbiont friends. Stay tuned for more!


End file.
